Kadia Hylton, Contributor

The man appeared smothered by the crisp white linen on the bed. His head was smooth and shiny, his face gaunt, his complexion sallow. Now he was overcome by a violent fit of coughing which almost graduated to convulsions. The nurse rushed to his side and injected a clear fluid into the tube leading into his wrist and the coughing abated. She glanced at one of the machines, noted his temperature, then adjusted the cold compress on his forehead and left the room.

'How much more of this do you think he can take?'

'I don't know.'

'What did the doctor say?'

'Nothing encouraging. Apparently, the cancer has spread, and on top of that he's fighting a severe case of pneumonia.'

'Well, did he mention anything about possible options?'

'No, and considering the circumstances, there's no reason to hope.'

'It's funny that you're the one they called. Wasn't there anyone else?'

'No. It seems that mine was the only name on the documents that came from the hospice.'

'Interesting.'

'That's an understatement.'

'Doesn't matter now, anyway. We've been friends a long time. Whatever you decide to do, I'll support you.'

'Wish I knew what that was.'

She stared at the man in the bed, now dwarfed by years and circumstance. This wasn't how she remembered him.

But then again, so much time had passed.

One Christmas he'd come for them in Spanish Town to take them to St. Elizabeth. They were little girls at the time; he arrived in a pretty, white sports car, and she remembered how tall and handsome he looked when he slid out of the driver's seat to greet their mother, not removing his dark glasses. She and her sister had hugged their mother quickly then flung their small bags in the car. It was new and the leather smelled of him, cigarettes, Perry Ellis 360, and sweat. It was a pleasant, almost hypnotic, smell; no other man in her life had since duplicated it.

The drive was long and exciting and she and her sister giggled to each other about having a father and they liked how it felt each time they called him Daddy. That first Christmas was one of presents, outings to Black River in unrelenting heat to get their hair done, warm coco bread from the badly-in-need-of paint bakery with the faded name sign above the entrance on High Street, and trips to the beach with the not so white sand and almond trees whose fallen leaves danced at the water's edge at Font Hill. Everywhere they went he introduced them as his daughters. 'Dem growing nice, man,' the country people would say.

He was Daddy then.

She approached the bedside. His eyes were closed and his breathing was laboured. He tossed his head from side to side and moaned. She glanced at the machines that she imagined were monitoring a million different things. The beeping sounds they emitted were more audible now that there was no conversation in the dimly-lit room. She automatically smoothed a wrinkle on the sheet near to where she stood, was about to touch his hand, then thought better of it. She realised she no longer felt anything for this man, a spectre of his former self. Funny, she thought. He'd been like a ghost then, too.

'Have you finished packing? Your father will be here any minute.'

'Yes, mummy.'

'Well, wait on the veranda and call me when he comes.'

'Okay, mummy.'

It was there she waited with her sister that summer, until it came to an end and he hadn't appeared or called or written to make them know what had happened. And summer became Christmas, and the years passed, and still there was no word from him. She remembered how disappointed she felt and understood now how she had burdened every relationship she entered as a young woman, fearing that the next guy would be no better than the last, that he too would lie, break his promises, abandon her, disappoint her. Their father was no longer Daddy; their aunt had started to refer to him as 'sperm donor' in conversations with their mother that they weren't expected to overhear, and soon her sister vowed never to have contact with him.

She herself wasn't so militant. She was more like their mother, who wore her emotions on her sleeve and was always willing to forgive. And forgive him she tried to, one summer, when she confronted him about all the things he'd done and all the things he hadn't. She was eighteen and at a pivotal point in her life and wanted more than anything to have a relationship with her father again. She cried the entire time she spoke to him and, when she was finished he said nothing, and she walked away from him thinking that his chance for reconciliation was gone, this cold son of a bitch whose heart she couldn't melt with her tears.

She brushed away a tear.

'Are you okay?'

'I'm fine.'

'That's crap. What's wrong?'

'He doesn't know I'm here.'

'How do you know that?'

'The doctor told me that the fever's made him delirious.'

'Screw that. Why don't you try talking to him?'

'What's the point?'

'Perhaps it might help.'

Help whom, she thought.

She remembered the summer she became even less important to him. There was a woman there now who demanded his attention, a short fair-skinned girl from Manchester with ample thighs. She was the only person he had eyes for now: no longer were there games of ludo before bed, on the veranda with the peenie wallies flying about and casting specks of light on their faces, or early-morning talks, about the boy that she liked who lived up the lane, when the fog was still in the front yard, him with his mug of coffee and pack of cigarettes and her putting her arm around his neck and taking tentative sips, liking the bitter taste it left on her tongue and how it felt when the heat warmed her insides. He stayed in bed later and the bedroom door was now closed, and she decided that the boy whom she liked that lived up the lane would be better than her father, anyway, and they could stay in the old kitchen all day together, touch and laugh and keep the door closed, too.

'I need to get out of here.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'I thought you being here would've changed how you feel.'

'You're mistaken.'

'Well, how are you gonna feel when he dies and you're not here?'

'You're kidding me, right?'

'You're all he has now, Kacey.'

'Is this the support you were talking about?'

'I just think you need to make your peace with him.'

'Kara, I lost my father a long time ago. I can't do this again.'

'You're gonna lose more than that if you don't.'

She walked into the small bathroom that reeked of disinfectant and the air freshener they'd used to try to combat that scent and closed the door. Instantly she felt nauseous and placed her hands on the basin that was chipped in places and had a yellow stain leading from the tap to the drain. She hated hospitals - even more now. She bowed her head, closed her eyes and thought of her father who lay barely breathing, semi-conscious in the room, and wondered why she'd even come when she'd gotten the call. Her grip tightened on the basin's edge, then relaxed. She opened her eyes and saw her reflection plainly in a mirror that perhaps was the cleanest part of the tiny bathroom. For the first time in her life she was acutely aware of how much she resembled her father. This time she couldn't brush away the tears that came.

- Kadia Hylton-Fraser